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storm. The lions carved on the feet of the desk try to glare at me, but cataracts of dust dim their eyes. Spiderwebs dangle from the ceiling in tangled sheets; I had that right at least. But they’re drifting down to a huge crate plunked right in the middle of the room.
    It’s like that Roman town I read about in school, the one buried by volcanic ash. In one instant people froze into eternal stillness, until they were no more than statues.
    If this wasn’t his son’s room, why did he lock it away?
    I walk over to the desk. A journal still lies open as if he’d just put it down. I blow the dust away and read, Archaeological Investigations into Medieval Village Structure . I pick up a bit of yellowed newsprint; it crackles in my hand. BOY STILL MISSING , blares the headline. “Two days of exhaustive searching have failed to provide …” Fifteen years this room has been locked in silence.
    But my impatience won’t let me read for long. Ribbons of dust are sparkling in the light, eddying into the cobwebs that drape the oversized crate. What could it be? The tablecloth has to be washed again as it is, so I snap it at the crate like a bullfighter’s cape. Dust goes swirling in great arcs, tracing the path of my cloth. Again and again I snap, until I see it’s no wooden crate I’m uncovering, but the metal, filigreed sides of … a lift?
    Yes, a lift. Not attached to anything, just the box itself, the part that carries you up and down. I should know. I’ve been in a lift once, when Mum and I took the train to the city to buy my school things.
    I wad the fabric up like a big red dustcloth, and I scrub, revealing open metalwork on the upper half and solid metal on the lower. Under my hand, the door folds partway in, as if inviting me inside. What is it doing here? Was Mr. Greenwood using it for one of his inventions? I think of the tiny brass box in the drawing room, the one Mrs. Beale grabbed from me when I first came, and I realize it was a miniature model of this lift. What could he want with the real thing?
    I open the door the rest of the way, remembering that glorious day in the city, and the boy who operated the lift, how his eyes looked me over even as he bobbed his head and called me “Miss.” How he slid the door closed behind me,like this; how it clicked shut, like this; how he reached over to a row of buttons—another swipe of my cloth reveals a complicated panel with knobs and numbers and dials—and pushed the button for our floor, like this—
    The lift rattles and creaks. The floor starts vibrating under my feet. I’ve gone and started something! How do I make it stop? I grab for the handle, but a sudden lurch throws me backward, and then the air is filled with a gigantic whirring, and the dials on the panel are spinning, floor numbers rushing by faster and faster—too many floors!—until they disappear in a blur. The lift is shaking like an earthquake and a tornado rolled into one, and my hands are searching for something to clutch, and I’m thrown back on the seat, my eyes squeezed shut against the force of it, and there’s a tremendous crash—
    And then stillness.

Her Ladyship Has a Taste

    M y eyes are still squeezed shut. I hardly dare open them. What kind of a mess has that banging and rattling made? I take a deep breath. Instead of dust, I smell fresh air. A breeze brushes my arm.
    Oh, Lord, I’ve broken the windows. How long will it take me to earn enough to replace them? I’ll need to sweep up the shards, get someone to fix the panes, look for a new position… .
    Something rustles in the breeze, probably the papers on the desk, and then— chirrup!
    My eyes fly open at the unexpected sound. But when I see what’s around me, I squeeze them shut again, and my heart starts beating like a drum corps on parade.
    It can’t be! It’s impossible!
    Just slow down , Mum is always telling me. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll begin again, slow as can be, and when I open my eyes this time,